Page 2 of The Bratva's Hunted Bride
By the time I reach the restaurant, Valery is standing outside, looking frazzled; her normally sleek ponytail has a halo of frizz around her face.
“There you are,” she says, meeting me at the car door. “Finally.”
“It’s your job to handle this place,” I remind her, leaving my jacket behind as I step out into the muggy heat. A weak breeze shuffles through the palms.
She shoots me a murderous look that I ignore, moving past her into the restaurant. It’s early enough that the place is mostly empty, but there’s a tension in the air, like a kicked hornet’s nest, centered around the kitchen.
I spot the cook, a middle-aged woman with a permanent frown, leaning against the kitchen counter.
“You,” I bark, getting her attention. She spins, and whatever retort she was about to fire off dies on her lips when she catches sight of me. “Are you a cook or not? Quit bitching, and make it work with what we’ve got.”
Valery gasps softly beside me and touches the back of my arm. I shake her off.
The cook recovers enough to speak. “We’ve got half our menu, if that, with modifications.”
“Then modify, or get a new job.” I stare her down, daring her to walk out and annoyed enough by the whole situation that I don’t care if she does. But I know she won’t. I’m calling her bluff.
She splutters and casts an incredulous look in Valery’s direction. I step in front of Valery. “You’re talking to me now. What’s it going to be?”
“Cook,” she says, holding up her hands in surrender.
“Good.” I wheel around and head for the office, gesturing for Valery to follow. “You need to be firm with these people, Val, or they’ll walk all over you.”
“Easy for you to say,” she grumbles. “No one wants to argue with someone who looks like you.”
Fair enough. Being this tall had its advantages.
“Did you get through to the supplier?”
“Yes, and they gave me the run around.”
“Get them on the line,” I sit on the edge of the desk while Valery places the call.
Five minutes of arguing later, the supplier promises to dispatch a truck first thing in the morning and to offer a fifteen percent discount on the shipment. Valery stares open-mouthed at me as I hand the phone back.
“How did you manage that? They wouldn’t give me the time of day. Total sexist bullshit.” She kicks the leg of her desk.
“Some of that, probably,” I agree, squeezing her shoulder gently. “I’ve just been threatening people longer than you have. You’ll get the hang of it.”
“And here I thought this was the nicer side of the family business,” she says, gesturing widely around herself. “Restaurants are cutthroat.”
“But so are you,” I remind her. “Anything else before I go?”
She shakes her head side to side. “Thanks for saving the day.”
“Anytime.” And I mean it. It might stress me the fuck out running around trying to keep the family going, but I’d do it again and again.
I drive halfway home before changing my mind. The stress of the day is still knitting my shoulders together, and if I go home now, I’ll just fill the hours until bed with more work.What I need right now is a drink. It’s barely dark out, but the nightclub is already teeming with partiers in various states of soberness. I toss the keys to the valet and step inside.
Music thumps, rattling my chest, as I push through the crowd to the bar. I find an empty seat in the corner and order, keeping an eye on the exit. It’s a habit I can’t shake, even when I’m trying to relax, even when the liquor starts to warm my body. We have an alliance with two of the families here in Miami, but there are other players—people who would love to catch me with my guard down.
There’s an eruption of laughter, and a gaggle of women stumble over to the bar, clearly already a few drinks deep. They’re young, maybe college-aged or just past it, and wearing the sort of skimpy club clothing that would’ve had me drooling ten years ago. At thirty-five, I just appreciate the view and turn back to my drink.
But my gaze snags on one of the women. Hair the color of honey spills down to her waist, like a princess straight out of a Disney movie, an effect enhanced by her big, brown eyes. They’re crinkling in a smile now as she stands off to one side of the raucous group, and two dimples pop on either side of her mouth.
Her mouth parts into an O of surprise as one of the women climbs up onto the bar and starts dancing, unaware, or uncaring, that her skirt is short enough to flash the entire bar. Friends of hers, but maybe not her usual crowd, I wager. She seems uncomfortable, like they managed to convince her to come out tonight, but it’s not her usual scene.
I realize I’m staring and lift my glass to my lips to cover it. She shimmers through the glass, a distorted view of her lithe, athletic body. Runner? Surfer? Tennis player? The other womenin the group flirt their way into a free round of drinks. Someone shoves a pink, umbrella-speared drink into her hand.
